DREAMS  OUT  OF  DARKNESS 


DREAMS 
OUT    OF    DARKNESS 

JEAN    STARR    UNTERMEYER 


New  York      B.  w.  HUEBSCH,  INC.         Mcmxxi 


Copyright,  1921,  byB.W.  Huebsch,  Inc. 

PRINTED    IN    U.   S.    A. 


DEDICATION 

(To  Louis) 
Take  my  heart  in  a  book; 

Take  strength  that  is  born  of  painf 
And  take  me  again  and  again 
In  a  sigh  or  a  look. 

Joy's  come — it  will  abide — 

Washed  clean  by  unwilling  tears. 

1  give  thanks  to  the  struggling  years; 
I  have  grown  at  your  side. 


4684.14 


For  the  privilege  of  reprinting  many  of  the  poems  in  this  volume, 
the  author  thanks  the  editors  of  The  Century,  The  Bookman,  The  Liber 
ator,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  The  Measure,  The  Smart  Set, 
The  Broom,  The  Literary  Review,  The  Double  Dealer,  The  Menorah 
Journal,  "The  Enchanted  Years"  and  An  American  Miscellany — 11920. 


CONTENTS 

I 

LAKE-SONG,  3 

SINFONIA  DOMESTICA,   5 

ANTI-EROTIC,  7 

FROM  THE  ROAD  IN  NOVEMBER,   8 

A  DEAD  NUN  SMILES  AT  TWO  POETS,   IO 

MIST,    13 

REBIRTH,    14 

LITTLE  DIRGE,    1 6 

BERKSHIRE  TWILIGHT,    17 

THE    OLD   TUNE,    1 8 

ON  TEMPLES,    19 

THE   PASSIONATE   SWORD,    21 

II 

EVE    BEFORE   THE  TREE,    25 

CHILD  AT  A  CONCERT,   37 
A   SOLDIER   LISTENS,    39 


CONTENTS 

TO  A  WAR  POET,    4! 

THE  QUARREL,  42 

FROM  THE  DAY-BOOK  OF  A  FORGOTTEN  PRINCE,  43 

AN   OBLIGATO   TO   BRAHMS,    46 

LULLABY    FOR    A    MAN-CHILD,    48 

TWO  AND  A  CHILD,  49 

THE  ALTAR,   50 

GOTHIC,    51 

III 
BLUE    BOOK-ROUTE    121,    55 

NEW   TRIBUTES,    56 

GLIMPSE  IN  AUTUMN,  58 

APRIL  CONCEIT,   59 

FORGET-ME-NOTS,    60 

TAKE  YOUR  HAND  OFF  MY  THROAT,   BEAUTY!   62 

IV 

DURING   DARKNESS,    65 
THREE  DREAMS 

I.    THE  SILVER  YOKE,  67 
II.    LOVE  AND  ART,  70 
III.   THE    HOLY   BAND,    72 


LAKE-SONG 

THE  lapping  of  lake  water 
Is  like  the  weeping  of  women, 
The  weeping  of  ancient  women 
Who  grieved  without  rebellion. 

The  lake  falls  over  the  shore 
Like  tears  on  their  curven  bosoms. 
Here  is  languid,  luxurious  wailing, 
The  wailing  of  kings'  daughters. 

So  do  we  ever  cry, 

A  soft,  unmutinous  crying, 

When  we  know  ourselves  each  a  princess 

Locked  fast  within  her  tower. 


[3] 


The  lapping  of  lake  water 
Is  like  the  weeping  of  women, 
The  fertile  tears  of  women 
That  water  the  dreams  of  men. 


SUiEQNIA^DOMESTICA 

WHEN  the  white  wave  of  a  glory  that  is  hardly  I 
Breaks  through  my  mind  and  washes  it  clean, 

I  know  at  last  the  meaning  of  my  ecstasy, 

And  know  at  last  my  wish  and  what  it  can 
mean. 

To  have  sped  out  of  life  that  night — to  have 

vanished 
Not  as  a  vision,  but  as  something  touched, 

yet  grown 
Radiant  as  the  moonlight,  circling  my  naked 

shoulder; 

Wrapped  in  a  dream  of  beauty,  longed  for, 
but  never  known! 


[si 


For  how  with  our  daily  converse,  even  the  sweet 

sharing 
Of  thoughts,  of  food,  of  home,  of  common 

life. 
How  shall  I  be  that  glory,  that  last  desire 

For  which  men  struggle?     Is  Romance  in 
a  wife? 

Must  I  bend  a  heart  that  is  bowed  to  breaking 
With  a  frustration,  inevitable  and  slow, 

And  bank  my  flame  to  a  low  hearth-fire,  believing 
You'll  come  for  warmth  and  life  to  its 
tempered  glow? 

Shall  I  mould  my  hope  anew,  to  one  of  service, 
And  tell  my  uneasy  soul     "Behold,  this  is 

good." 
And  meet  you  (if  we  do  meet)  even  at  Heaven's 

threshold 

With  ewer  and  basin,  with  clothing  and  with 
food? 


[6] 


ANTI-EROTIC 

HOLD  me  so  and  press  my  head 
Close  to  your  shoulder  with  a  gentle  hand; 
And  do  not  wonder  that  this  mild  caress 
Dearer  to  me  than  all  your  passion  is. 

For  passion  one  can  have  from  many  men. 
When  a  woman  flames  to  the  new  life  of  Spring, 
Men  read  the  ardor  and  the  dreaming  in  her  eyes 
As  tributes  to  themselves — and  burn  to  her. 

But  to  be  cherished  a's  a  child  is  cherished> 
To  be  held  as  something  incredibly  dear, 
This  is  like  the  delicate  hopes  of  childhood, 
Like  waking   from   December  into   a   sun-sweet 
May. 


[7] 


FROM  THE  ROAD  IN  NOVEMBER 

Is  death  like  this : 

The  slow  and  quiet  chill 

That  creeps  up  from  the  ground 

And  wraps  the  listless  hands, 

That  numbs  the  closed  lips  and  the  drooping 

eyes 

That  open  to  gaze  wishless 
On  shallow  banks  of  snow? 

1  To  hear  without  thrill  or  sadness 
The  sounds  of  twilight, 
The  soft  snap  of  breaking  twigs, 
The  distant  baying  of  a  dog, 
Winds  urging  on  uncovered  leaves, 
And  a  little  stream 
That  tattles  incongruously  of  summer  .  .  . 

[8] 


To  realize  the  slant  of  shadowy  hills, 
To  look  again  at  the  lighted  house 
Shutting  in  one's  beloved  .  .  . 
And  then  to  turn  to  the  dark  fields, 
To  go  willingly  into  the  deep  sepulchre  of 
night. 


[9] 


A  DEAD  NUN  SMILES  AT  TWO 
POETS 

THE  sun  was  smiling  lazy  smiles 

And  crinkling  all  the  winter  weather; 

He  planted  Spring  for  miles  and  miles 
And  drew  two  women  friends  together. 

Each  sauntered  from  her  separate  hill 

And,  when  they  met,  walked  by  the  river, 

Discussing  modern  love  until 

Their  pliant  hearts  began  to  quiver. 

"Now  Art  impinges  on  our  lives 

And  complicates  our  strange  position; 
We  baulk  at  being  maids  or  wives, 

Intolerant  of  all  tradition." 

•[10] 


"Oh,  had  I  lived  in  Sappho's  time, 

Then  Beauty  had  its  proper  setting!  .  .  ." 
"Ah  yes,  or  in  old  Egypt's  prime — " 

Parried  the  other,  tense  and  fretting. 

The  sun  with  manly  mischief  beamed 
Upon  each  brow  till  it  grew  moister; 

He  meant  to  force  these  two,  it  seemed, 
Into  a  cool,  adjacent  cloister. 

And  through  a  crack  in  its  dim  room 

He  touched  a  spot,  with  shining  finger, 

Where,  smiling  even  on  her  tomb, 

A  sleeping  lady  made  them  linger. 

With  hands  that  clasped  a  rigid  cross, 
She,  who  forswore  both  Art  and  Eros, 

Now  drily  seemed  to  mourn  the  loss 

Of  what  had  made  her  life  a  hero's. 


CM] 


She,  who  withstood  the  chill  routine 

And  smothered  all  her  warring  fires, 

Seemed  from  the  past  to  intervene 

And  smile  at  their  perturbed  desires. 

They  held  communion  there,  these  two, 
With  wisdom  hidden  from  the  sages, 

And  from  their  carven  sister  drew 

A  solace,  strengthened  by  the  ages. 

So  from  this  cryptic  face  and  keen, 

Each  woman  carried  curious  trophies; 

Bearing  them  through  her  life  unseen, 
To  flaunt  them  only  in  her  strophes. 


[12] 


MIST 

THERE  is  a  mist  over  this  lake. 
It  shrouds  the  colors  and  the  sounds  as  well ; 
It  is  wrapped  over  the  hills  like  a  strong  veil 
It  blurs  the  patterns  that  the  pine-trees  make,  lace- 
woven  over  the  sky. 

Old  Sun,  you  can  not  pierce  it; 
As  I  look  at  you,  you  seem  no  more  than  a  brightly- 
cloudy  glass  sphere. 
Little  birds,  your  chirring  is  dull  .  .  . 
A  cow-bell,  clanking  in  the  woods, 
Has  the  muffled  music  of  minor  thirds. 

Oh  mist,  you  have  lessened  everything. 

Even  my  longing  is  choked  within  my  breast; 

I  can  find  no  song  for  it. 

[13] 


REBIRTH 

LET  us  lay  aside  the  memories  of  old  love 

Like  the  garments  of  our  childhood. 

They  have  a  beauty  and  young  grace, 

But  they  do  not  fit  us  any  more. 

We  have  grown  bigger  and  we  shall  be  clothed 

In  a  grandeur  fitting  our  destiny. 

You  have  found  me  and  I  you, 

And  all  the  bright  and  ragged  past 

Is  gone. 

Not  through  passion  or  delight 

Nor  by  an  easy  way. 

But  through  red  pain  and  struggle,  sanctified  by 

tears, 

You  have  come — 

Not  to  me  but  to  what  I  stand  for. 
You  have  revealed  my  godhead  to  me 

[14] 


And  by  reverence  have  given  me  my  heritage. 
Now  I  can  bear  with  you  and  for  you, 
Since  you  have  found  me 
Woman — and  Holy. 


LITTLE  DIRGE 

AS  hearts  have  broken,  let  young  hearts  break; 

Let  slow  feet  tread  a  measure  feet  have  trod 

before. 
There  gleams  a  pathway  I  shall  never  take; 

Here  dies  a  grief  will  trouble  me  no  more. 

Only  swift  feet  may  overtake  desire, 

Only  young  hearts  can  soar. 
My  goal  is  beckoning  from  a  safe  hearth-fire; 

My  youth  is  slipping  out  the  door. 


[16] 


BERKSHIRE  TWILIGHT 

THESE  autumn  hills  have  their  sadness. 
So  have  I, 

When  a  shadow  crosses  my  spirit 
And  I  neither  live  nor  die. 

Evening  drops  over  their  peaks 
And  chars  their  flame. 
Their  color  sifts  into  grayness. 
With  me  it  is  the  same. 


[17] 


THE  OLD  TUNE 

I  PRAY  thee  send  thy  arrows,  Spring! 
I'll  court  and  welcome  every  sting; 
Thy  silver  javelins  of  rain 
That  prick  .my  lethargy  to  pain. 
Behold,  I  let  my  garments  slip 
And  bare  me  to  thy  windy  whip, 
Nor  care  if  thy  approach  be  rude 
So   that  thou   pierce  my  torpitude. 
See,  I  am  bound  in  ice  and  frost, 
A  frozen  thing,  and  well-nigh  lost. 
O  quicken  thou  my  blood  again, 
Though  it  be  ecstasy  of  pain. 
Thy  keenest  thrust  I  beg  thee  give 
Only  that  I  may  know  I  live. 


[18] 


TELL  me : 

Why  do  men  make  crypts  of  stone 

To  snare  a  living  God? 

Has  he  not  made  him  for  his  own 

A  temple  far  more  beautiful, 

Whose  ceiling  is  no  static  blue, 

And  the  walls  of  which  shine  with  no 

ephemeral  gilt, 

But  are  fashioned  of  quivering  green 
That  fades  only  to  bloom  again, 
Even  as  the  word  of  the  Lord? 

And  tell  me: 

Do  these  bought  singers  reach  his  favor? 
And  is  his  ear  arrested  by  these  paid  praises? 
Or  are  they  not  as  hired  mourners 

[19] 


Whose  wailings  measure  the  purse  not  the 
pulse  of  the  bereaved? 

Is  there  no  real  singer  among  us? 

Is   there   no   one   who   must   celebrate   our 

hungers  and  our  feastings 
And  make  a  mellow  music  for  God? 
And  is  there  no  dancer  who,  with  leaping  joy 

and  drooping  sorrow, 

Will  show  our  state  to  the  eyes  of  our  Father? 
And  are  there  not  many — yea,  millions — 
Who  will  make  living  works 
That  will  invite  the  Almighty 
So  that  he  will  come  down  and  dwell  in  them? 


[20] 


THE  PASSIONATE  SWORD 

TEMPER  my  spirit,  oh  Lord, 

Burn  out  its  alloy, 
And  make  it  a  pliant  steel  for  thy  wielding, 

Not  a  clumsy  toy; 
A  blunt,  iron  thing  in  my  hands 

That  blunder  and  destroy. 

Temper  my  spirit,  oh  Lord, 

Keep  it  long  in  the  fire; 
Make  it  one  with  the  flame.     Let  it  share 

That  up-reaching  desire. 
Grasp  it,  Thyself,  oh  my  God ; 

Swing  it  straighter  and  higher! 


[21] 


II 


EVE  BEFORE  THE  TREE 

PROLOGUE  OF  LIGHT: 

We  are  the  spears  of  light — piercing,  stabbing. 
The  ribbands  of  sun  are  we — swaying,  blinding. 
We  free  the  cloud-swaddled  earth ;  we  float 
Through  darkness.     We  dazzle  as  the  morning. 
We  press  you.  Eve,  we  push  you  forward. 
Oh,  Eve,  we  bewilder  your  eyes. 

EVE 

IT  is  so  cold.     The  little  winds  of  dawn 
Clutch  at  me  when  I  pass  as  though 
The  chilly  fingers  of  a  child  unborn 
Would  check  my  purpose.     Rather  had  I  stayed 
Comforted  and  close  in  Adam's  arms, 
Had  not  a  hunger  keener  than  the  flesh 

[25] 


Driven  me  here. 

I  am  so  young  and  so  afraid, 
Yet  do  as  I  must  do  ... 
The  light  here  is  so  green  and  gray 
And  the  bulging  trees  seem  more  like  lowering 

monsters 

Than  the  friendly  shelters  of  the  day — 
All  except  this  that  glows  and  trembles 
And  beckons  with  pale  fire. 

VOICES  OF  DARKNESS: 

Eve,  Eve,  withhold  your  hand] 

Slacken  the  bridle  on  your  mind, 

We  dwell  in  comfort  beneath  the  land; 

We  need  no  awakening.     We  are  blind. 

Eve,  Eve,  we  beg  you  turn. 

The  answer  that  you  hope  to  find 
Inhabits  not  what  you  must  spurn. 

We  live  by  darkness.     Oh,  Eve,  be  kind! 

EVE 

I  AM  so  young  and  so  untried ; 
[26] 


So  new  in  a  finished,  moving  world, 
So  haunted  by  a  dream  that  will  not  shape 
And  so  tormented  by  a  blind  desire  .  .  . 
And  yet  I  hesitate  to  lift  my  hand, 
To  gather  and  eat  of  the  Tree. 

My  life  began  with  Adam.     If  there  was  life 

before, 

I  have  forgotten  it,  nor  can  remember 
Father  nor  mother,  sister,  nurse  nor  friend. 
I  was  born  woman,  shaped  for  one  design : 
As  mate  for  Adam,  treasury  of  his  love; 
And  to  this  purpose  gladly  consecrate 
Whatever  worth  I  have. 

All  vibrant  loveliness  that  the  cozening  pools 
Tell  me  at  every  visit  I  possess. 
These  for  his  rapture,  his  repose, 
And  the  deep-swelling  tenderness  that  stirs 
All  of  my  being  when  I  look  at  him, 
Gazing  in  wonder  on  his  garden  world, 
Or  lying  so  exposed  in  sleep 
To  the  prying,  envious  elements. 

[27] 


VOICES  OF  THE  WATER: 

Eva,  Eva,  Earth's  troubled  daughter, 
We  come  from  the  troubled  depths  of  'water. 
There  where  the  sources  of  life  increase, 
We  know  you  can  never  hope  for  peace. 

Eve,  though  we  come  to  you  unbidden, 
The  secrets  of  life  in  us  are  hidden. 
The  apple  will  bring  yotu  no  release ; 
Eva,  your  yearning  will  never  cease. 

EVE 

AND  yet  I  falter  and  of  late  I  go 
With  doubt  and  sadness  to  love's  ritual, 
Fearing  the  puzzling  aftermath 
When  Adam  sleeps,  detached  from  love  aftd  me, 
Somehow  made  free  and  separate 
By  that  which  binds  me  closer  every  day. 
How  many  nights  I  lay  on  the  soft  earth 
And  watched  with  uneasy  heart  the  arching 

moon 

Make  her  slow  progress  to  the  sky's  deep  couch. 
How  blanched  I  felt,  how  full  of  quivering 

emptiness. 


My  wish  reached  out  like  vanquishing  arms 
To  grasp  and  know  some  stabler  mood, 
Some  firmer,  more  accessible  ground 
Whence  I  could  understand,  admit 
And  reconcile  this  difference  in  our  love. 

When  I  first  woke  in  this  delightful  close, 

Adam  was  bending  over  me,  his  eager  eyes, 

Rapt  with  a  selfless  worship,  searched  my  soul, 

His  face,  then,  was  my  world — and  all 

The  later,  lesser  miracles  of  earth 

Were  pale  delights  after  Delight  had  gone. 

In  that  first  wakening  I  beheld 
Neither  the  feathered  sky  cut  through 
With  glittering  dagger-shaft  of  sun, 
Nor  the  nobility  of  trees,  nor  flowery  mazes. 
Nor  was  there  bird-song,  nor  the  ease  of  grass 
Nor  the  faint  poignance  of  falling  water — 
Just  Adam's  face  shone  down  on  me ; 
Adam's  dark  face,  that  battleground, 
Where  all  emotions  strove  with  one  another. 
Worship,  possession,  tenderness  and  pain, 

[29] 


And,  last,  the  supplication  of  a  needy  child. 
This  was  the  confirmation  of  my  being, 
Binding  me  to  him  with  an  unseen  thong; 
Charging    my    new-born    soul    with    swelling 

power, 
Strong  to  endure  through  tossed  eternity. 

VOICES  OF  WARNING  ANGELS: 

Eva  .  .  .  Eva  .  .  .  Eva  .  .  . 
We  call  you  in  supplication. 
Eva  .  .  .  Eva  .  .  .  Eva  .  .  . 
Our  'wings  beat  a  'warning  thunder. 
Eva  .  .  .  Eva  .  .  .  Eva  .  .  . 
Down  from  our  heavenly  station, 
Forsaking  realms  of  wonder, 
Hear  us  beseech  you,  woman: 
Lift  not  your  hand  to  touch! 
A  curse  is  on  that  human 
Who  seeks  to  learn  too  much. 

EVE 

THEN  Adam  touched  with  timid  hand 
The  rippling  mantle  of  my  silken  hair 

[30] 


And  with  a  cry,  half  sob,  half  clarion, 

Gathered  me  up  and  held  me  to  his  breast 

With  a  tenderer,  more  reverential  touch 

Than  that  he  gives  to  flowers. 

Forth  with  sweet,  cautioning  words 

He  led  me  through  this  tangled  green, 

Naming  for  me  the  beasts  and  flowers, 

The  birds,  the  insects  and  the  trees, 

But  warned  me  with  a  sidelong,  shivering  glance 

Of  these  curved  branches  through  whose  silvery 

leaves 

A  rosy  apple  swayed  and  seemed  to  sing. 
And  Adam  whispered,  "O  beware,  my  love, 
Of  the  forbidden  fruit  of  secret  knowledge. 
For  thus  to  me  a  rigid  word  was  spoken 
In  lonely  days  before  you  came  to  help  me." 

VOICES  OUT  OF  EDEN: 

Eve  .  .  .  Eve  .  .  .  Eve  .  .  . 
Fateful  woman,  groping  child, 
Paradise  holds  its  breath.     Perceive 
The  milky  dove,  the  lion  wild; 

[31] 


The  innocent  and  undefiled 

Beseech  and  call  yo\u.     Hearken  and  leave, 

Leave  them  their  'world  untouched  and  mild. 

EVE 

ALL  through  an  idle  season  that  was  summer, 
Day  after  day  and  hour  after  hour, 
Adam  was  weaned  from  all  his  former  wonder, 
Having  one  thought — and  that  to  be  my  lover. 
The  beasts  were  calling  from  neglected  jungles, 
The  birds  were  wooing  him  from  unseen  branches, 
The  blossoms  taunted  with  provoking  perfumes, 
But  Adam  only  turned  to  my  embraces. 
And  I  was  there  to  start  and  still  his  hunger, 
To  be  his  playmate  and  his  soothing  mother, 
His  lighted  torch,  his  sweetly  quenching  water. 
And  I  had  joy  while  love  held  us  encircled 
As  stars  are  bound  within  one  constellation, 
Until  I  felt  a  new  life  move  within  me 
And  heard  the  summons  of  the  generations. 

Then  gradually  as  the  vigilant  sun 
Relaxes  his  regard  when  night  comes  on, 


Adam  began  to  let  his  glances  stray 

Back  to  the  world  he  knew  before  I  came: 

To  court  the  indolent  animals, 

To  mock  the  birds  and  hold  discourse  with  these, 

To  finger  curiously  some  new-found  plant 

Or  gaze  at  his  reflection  in  a  brook. 

Then  when  his  tedium  became  too  great 

And  when  the  pleasures  of  the  day  grew  stale, 

Adam  would  come  where  I  awaited  him, 

Rehearsing  his  adventures  one  by  one 

And,  with  the  accustomed  hand  and  voice  of  love, 

Awake  those  ardours  in  me  that  so  lightly  sleep, 

Till  soul  and  body  yielded — and  enthralled 

I  saw  beyond  the  borders  of  this  world  .  .  . 

Clouds  etched  with  running  lightning  smote  my  eyes; 

Infinitely  stretched  out  beneath  my  feet; 

Glories  undreamed  of  in  my  calmer  hours 

Caught  me  and  swept  me  into  heaven  itself, 

Palpitant  and  rapturous  through  the  night. 

But  Adam  drank  his  cup  of  ecstasy 

In  one  quick  draught  as  a  parched  traveller  would 

So  over-eager  for  the  offered  joy, 

So  headlong,  he  could  scarcely  savour  it. 

[33] 


And  then  completed  but  left  unimpaired, 
Unscathed  by  that  all-too-smiting  blast, 
Turned  sighing  softly  from  my  restless  arms 
And  slept — and  left  me  to  my  chafing  dreams. 

VOICES  OF  GROWING  THINGS: 

By  the  moist  ground,  by  the  humid  air, 

We  are  nurtured. 

From  the  dumb  seed,  the  stolid  root, 

We  are  Quickened. 

From  the  unconscious  egg  w\e  are  warmed  and 

brought  forth. 
From  the  mother,  eager  and  dreaming,  we  are 

delivered  .  .  . 

Therefore,  Eve,  young  mother  of  nations, 
You,  'who  shall  be  the  symbol  of  all  women, 
Bravest  and  most  distressed  of  womankind, 
Courage,  courage  in  your  fervent  seeking. 
Lift  up  your  hand  and  rend  the  darkness,  Eve. 

EVE 

OH  voices  that  compel  my  restive  mind, 
Are  you  my  multiple  selves  confusing  me? 

[34] 


Stray  forces  that  must  band  themselves  in  one 
Against  the  sinuous  thought  that  tempts  me  so? 
Enough.     Let  be.     The  way  is  suddenly  clear. 
A  twisting  pathway  straightens  at  my  feet; 
My  fate  is  beckoning  from  out  the  Tree. 
My  soul  is  set  and  nothing  stays  my  hand. 
I  have  come  here,  not  for  myself  alone, 
But  for  my  children  that  shall  follow  me. 
Not  to  know  all,  for  that  was  never  planned — 
But  to  be  welded  in  a  common  fire, 
A  white-hot  radiance  that  will  fuse 
All  of  our  rending  differences,  and  bind 
All  men  and  women  in  the  years  to  come. 
For  Adam's  nature  and  my  own,  dear  God, 
Are  different  in  ways  beyond  my  sense, 
And  I  can  see  frustration  in  his  eyes 
When  I  give  voice  to  that  which  troubles  me. 
And  though  an  unknown  curse  may  fall  on  me, 
Though  endless  punishments  wait  even  now, 
For  puzzled  generations  I  must  know 
What  parts  us  even  in  the  hour  of  love, 
When  flesh  united  to  dear  flesh  is  swept, 
Surging  in  what  should  be  a  binding  flood 

[35] 


Into  aloof  and  separate  mountain  peaks- 
Sundered  and  cool  and  alien,  each  to  each. 

Darkness  and  trouble  close  about  me  now; 
But  through  the  clouds,  bewildered  voices  sound. 
From  the  dreamed  future  they  are  urging  me  ... 
Let  fall  the  burning  sword,  for  I  must  know! 

PROPHETIC  CHORUS: 

)  The  deed  is  done  and  is  not  done; 
The  fruit  is  tasted,  the  search  begun. 
Knowledge  is  yours  and  yet  you  do  not  know. 
New  Eves  will  come  and  hunger,  even  so; 
Through  countless  centuries,  a  restless  will 
Shall  drive  new  women  toward  fresh  goals  until, 
In  their  instinctive  wisdom,  they  will  find 
Knowledge  can  never  be  an  end  designed 
But  lies  in  searching.     Women  w\ill  ever  grope 
For  that  which  buds  and  ripens  in  their  hope. 
And  though  the  fruit  of  knowledge  is  not  sweet, 
Eve,  it  is  good  that  you — and  they — should  eat. 


[36] 


CHILD  AT  A  CONCERT 

SONATA,  F  MINOR.     BEETHOVEN 

(For  Richard  Buhllg) 

BETWEEN  that  child's  face  seen  half  in  shadow, 

Where  the  dim  lights  touch  into  soft  radiance 

The  rondure  of  temple,  cheek  and  chin, — 

Between  that  grave  face, 

As  gently  moulded  as  a  melody, 

What  bond  is  there  with  the  tumultuous  sound 

That  burns  and  storms  and  rushes  through  this  hall? 

The  child  never  stirs. 

She  is  as  unshaken  as  a  marble  Muse. 

And  under  the  artist's  fingers, 

From  his  fixed  eye,  through  tensely  breathing  lips, 

The  Apassionata  seems  to  surge; 

[37] 


To  catch  up  in  a  divine  rage 

These  shaken  men  and  women, 

A  mocking  giant  careless  of  their  fears — 

A  wielder  of  water,  earth  and  air — 

A  scourger  with  brands  of  war — 

A  shimmering  healer — 

A  cradling,  compassionate  God.  .  .  . 

And  when  the  music  dies  away 

And  blinking  faces  shake  off  their  awe, 

Amid  the  bustle  of  departing  crowds, 

The  child  sits, 

Lonely,  grave,  composed: 

Moved  and  unmoving. 


[38] 


A  SOLDIER  LISTENS 

(To  Siegfried  S  as  so  on) 

WHAT  was  it  came  to  distress  you? 
Who  from  the  restless  dead? 
As  you  sat  in  the  slanting  shadows 
With  a  heavy  head. 

The  music  pressed  in  among  us, 
Almost  too  much — 
You  quivered  and  seemed  to  be  startled 
By  a  known  touch. 

Even  when  healing  cadences 
Reached  out  to  you, 
Your  face  looked  broken  in  pieces, 
Shot  through  and  through. 

[39] 


As  you  sat  in  the  slanting  shadows 
With  a  heavy  head, 
What  was  it  came  to  distress  you? 
Who  from  the  clamoring  dead? 


[40] 


TO  A  WAR  POET 

I  STAND  before  your  grief  with  hanging,  futile 

hands — 

And  long  to  bring  you  healing,  piteous  youth ; 
Yet  here  the  matter  stands — 
You  must  plow  other  lands. 

These  planted  bones  will  bear  no  flower, 
For  you  have  garnered  all  their  truth. 
Go — in  another  place,  another  hour, 
Find  a  new  power  1 


THE  QUARREL 

WHY  do  you  bring  night  into  the  room, 

And  why  do  you  hurt  me,  you  two, 

With  your  heavy  words  that  thud  and  thud 

And  blur  the  afternoon? 

What  avail  your  dark  hatreds; 

What  golden  bonds  will  follow  after? 

See  how  artless  joy  signals  a  truce! 

For  swifter  tha'n  your  racing  angers, 

Piercing  the  gloom  your  stubborn  hearts  created, 

My  pagan  canary  sends  his  yellow-bannered  song, 

Silencing  your  hate  .  .  . 


[42] 


FROM  THE  DAY-BOOK  OF  A 
FORGOTTEN  PRINCE 

MY  father  is  happy  or  we  should  be  poor, 
His  gateway  is  wide  and  the  folk  of  the  moor 
Come  singing  so  gaily  right  up  to  the  door. 

We  live  in  a  castle  that's  dingy  and  old; 
The  casements  are  broken,  the  corridors  cold; 
The  larder  is  empty,  the  cook  is  a  scold. 

But  father  can  dance  and  his  singing  is  loud. 
From  meadow  and  highway  there's  always  a  crowd 
That  gathers  to  hear  him,  and  this  makes  him  proud. 

HG  roars  out  a  song  in  a  voice  that  is  sweet, 
Of  grandeur  that's  gone,  rare  viands  to  eat, 
And  treasure  that  used  to  be  laid  at  his  feet. 

He  picks  up  his  robe,  faded,  wrinkled  and  torn, 
Though  banded  in  ermine,  moth-eaten  and  worn, 
And  held  at  the  throat  by  a  twisted  old  thorn. 

[43] 


He  leaps  in  the  air  with  a  rickety  grace 

And  a  kingly  old  smile  illumines  his  face, 

While  he  fondles  his  beard  and  stares  off  into  space. 

The  villagers  laugh,  then  look  quickly  away, 
And  some  of  them  kneel  in  the  orchard  to  pray. 
I  often  hear  whispers:     "The  old  king  is  fey!" 

But  after  they're  gone,  we  shall  find,  if  you  please, 
White  loaves  and  a  pigeon  and  honey  and  cheese, 
And  wine  that  we  drink  while  I  sit  on  his  knees. 

And  then,  while  he  sups,  he  will  feed  me  and  tell 
Of  Mother,  whom  men  used  to  call  "The  Gazelle," 
And  of  glorious  times  before  the  curse  fell. 

At  last  he  will  sink,  half-asleep,  to  the  floor; 
The  rafters  will  echo  his  quivering  snore  .  .  . 
I  go  to  find  cook,  through  the  slack,  oaken  door. 


[44] 


My  father  is  happy  or  we  should  be  poor; 
His  gateway  is  wide  and  the  folk  of  the  moor 
Come  singing  so  gaily  right  up  to  the  door. 


[45] 


AN  OBLIGATO  TO  BRAHMS 

WHAT  is  there  in  that  group  which  moves  me  so? 
It's  commonplace,  I  realize  all  that. 
A  woman  with  a  child  on  either  side ; 
The  mother,  spectacled  and  fat. 

The  girl  leans  over,  woman-wise  so  soon, 
Alert  and  following  the  rolling  themes 
Her  mother's  finger  traces.     But  the  boy 
Leans  back,  lost  in  his  own  dear  dreams. 

The  mother  rests  the  score  upon  her  lap 
And  guides  her  daughter  as  the  chords  recur, 
And  when  her  son  begins  to  droop,  her  arm 
Curves  out  and  draws  him  close  to  her. 


[46] 


Her  arm  is  thick  and  unsymmetrical 
And  has  no  beauty  known  to  song  or  art. 
Yet  that  and  music,  dear — it  is  too  much! 
Take  me  away — it  breaks  my  heart. 


[47] 


LULLABY  FOR  A  MAN-CHILD 

THE  mountains  waver  through  my  tears, 

Hush,  my  son— 

The  trees  are  bending  at  the  knees 

Like  women  broken  by  the  years. 

But  you,  my  child,  need  have  no  fears; 

Only  for  Woman,  love  has  spears. 

Sleep,  my  son. 

So  cuddle  closer  to  my  heart. 
Dream,  my  son— 

'Tis  strange  to  think  that  you  find  peace 
Here,  where  all  stormy  passions  start. 
But  you  need  fear  no  ache  or  smart — 
The  pain  is  always  woman's  part. 
Sleep,  my  son. 

[48] 


TWO  AND  A  CHILD 

DOES  the  Spring  night  call  little  boys 

As  it  calls  their  wild  young  mothers? 

But  what  can  a  child  know  of  us — or  others — 

He  has  different  joys. 

A  tree  that  bends  and  almost  smothers 

Two  in  the  road  who  clasp  and  quiver, 

To  him  is  only  a  swing  by  the  river — 

One  of  his  outdoor  toys. 

Put  him  to  bed  and  let  us  flee 

Out  in  the  night  with  other  lovers. 

It  will  not  be  long  till  he  discovers 

What's  known  to  you  and  me. 

And  then  when  a  destined  maiden  hovers 

Near  for  what  only  he  can  give  her  .  .  . 

No!     Close  the  door.     What  makes  me  shiver? 

I  will  stay  here.     Let  me  be. 

[49] 


THE  ALTAR 

THERE  were  estrangements  on  the  road  of  love : 
Betrayals  and  false  passions,  angers,  lusts. 
There  were  keen  nights  and  sated  noons  and  trusts 
Grudgingly  given  and  held  light  to  prove 
Your  self-sufficiency,  your  manhood's  dower, 
And  mockery  at  my  faith, — my  single  power. 

There  were  renewals  all  along  the  way, 
Of  pledges  and  of  weeping,  new  delights. 
But  no  new  meaning  till  that  night  of  nights 
You  groped  beyond  to  where  my  meaning  lay. 
And  when  you  knelt  to  me  you  found  me  kneeling, 
Proud  of  love's  pain  and  humble  to  its  healing. 


[50] 


GOTHIC 

THINK  not,  my  dearest,  though  I  love  to  speak 
With  windy  pride  about  the  rock  I  use 
To  build  with — oh,  think  not  I  would  refuse 

The  gargoyles  of  your  fancy.     Every  bleak 

Cornice,  and  every  archway  I  now  seek 

To  have  them  softened  with  your  arabesques, 
Your  graceful,  happy  scrollery  on  desks 

On  altars,  lecterns,  niches  and  on  pews. 

Though  I  may  labor  with  a  fervor  that 

Is  mediaeval  in  its  piety, 
Completion  finds  my  temples  gaunt  and  flat, 
Cold  and  erect.     But  in  satiety 

Of  sternness,  I  must  turn  to  you,  I  find, 
To  ornament  the  Gothic  of  my  mind. 


Ill 


BLUE  BOOK— ROUTE  121 

THERE  were  sights  to  be  seen  at  the  flaming  end  of 

summer 

As  we  sped  over  the  land  like  a  flying  scarf : 
The  kindled  braziers  of  the  mountain-ash 
Swinging  their  wild  greetings  from  tame  door-yards ; 
Gypsy-dressed  zinnias,  spinsters  in  masquerade; 
The  tidy  farmer,  raking  his  first  brush  fire, 
Himself  an  angular  shadow  beside  its  supple 

aliveness ; 
Obliging  cows,  arranging  themselves  in  pleasing 

groups 

Over  the  stone-sprinkled  meadows; 
Sun-bleached  spread  of  a  hill 
And  sun-dyed  tapestry  of  an  apple-tree; 
Obsequious  sun  himself,  Summer's  gifted  servant — 
All  these  came  running  to  the  roadside 
With  mocking  gestures  of  farewell. 

[55] 


NEW  TRIBUTES 

FAREWELL,  you  country  beauties, 

For  the  first  time  I  have  been  your  lover; 

At  last  I  know  your  perfections 

And  my  heart  leans  back  and  lingers  after  me. 

I'll  give  you  tributes  every  one. 

Not  only  to  you,  staunch  hills  ruffled  in  green, 

Nor  just  to  you,  sly  lake  that  quivers  with  hidden 

laughter, 

But  to  the  powdered  blueberry  as  well 
That  flirts  so  primly  with  the  passer-by. 

Golden-glow,  I  salute  your  aggressive  yellow; 
I  like  the  natural  way  you  flaunt  yourselves. 
Scythe-swing  of  the  golden  Sun 
That  swathes  the  whole  world  into  a  glittering 
bundle; 

[56] 


And  even  your  magic,  Moon,  you  impostor, 

Who  look  so  young,  although  we  know  you  old ; 

Low-humming  bee  and  fidgety  grasshopper, 

And  sandy  sash  of  road — 

For  each  your  praises, 

For  I  take  something  from  all  of  you. 

I  go  freighted  with  beauty 

And  stagger  with  wonder 

Under  a  new  burden. 


[57] 


GLIMPSE  IN  AUTUMN 

LADIES  at  a  ball 

Are  not  so  fine  as  these 

Richly  brocaded  trees 
That  decorate  the  fall. 

They  stand  against  a  wall 

Of  crisp  October  sky, 

Their  plumed  heads  held  high, 
Like  ladies  at  a  ball. 


[58] 


APRIL  CONCEIT 

CAN  this  be  Spring  that  floats  such  shadowy  veils? 
And  what  procession  does  she  head? 
And  are  the  showery  whitened  apple-trees 
The  bouquets  of  a  bride,  about  to  be  wed? 

And  are  those  dark  hills  standing  in  a  row 
The  black-f rocked  ushers  in  her  train? 
And  can  it  be  the  bride  is  sad  this  year 
And  hangs  back  weeping?    What  else,  then,  is  the 
rain? 


[59] 


FORGET-ME-NOTS 

(For  Amy  Lowell) 

WE  walked  through  garden  closes 

Languidly,  with  dragging  Sunday  feet, 

And  passed  down  a  long  pleached  alley, 

And  could  remember,  as  one  remembers  in  a  fairy 

tale, 

Ladies  in  brocade,  and  lovers,  and  musk. 
We  surprised  tall  dahlias 
That  shrugged  and  turned  scarlet  faces  to  the  breeze. 

Further  still  we  sauntered  under  old  trees,  that 

bended  with  such  a  dignity 
But  hardly  acknowledged  our  passing 
Until  at  last — (and  it  was  like  a  gift, 
A  treasure  lifted  from  a  dream  of  the  past) 
We  came  to  a  pond  banded  in  lindens. 

[60] 


The  bank  curved  under  its  crown  of  forget-me-nots ; 

They  shone  like  blue  jewels  from  the  further  shore. 

And  they  were  free!     I  could  have  had  them  all 

To  gather  and  to  carry  in  my  arms! 

But  I  took  only  a  few, 

Seven  blue  gems, 

To  set  in  the  gold  of  my  memory. 


[61] 


TAKE  YOUR  HAND  OFF  MY 
THROAT,  BEAUTY! 

TAKE  your  hand  off  my  throat,  Beauty; 

Loose  your  clutch! 

Unchain  these  prisoner-tears; 

Let  my  crowded  heart  be  dispossessed  of  its  burden. 

Why  do  you  waylay  me  at  such  unsuspected  corners? 

Why  blind  and  choke  me 

And  lay  your  lash  over  my  shoulders? 

Release  me  and  tell  me  calmly  your  bidding. 

Let  me  go  whole  and  unhampered 

To  carry  out  your  commands. 

Beauty, 

Take  your  hand  off  my  throat! 


IV 


DURING  DARKNESS 

TAKE  me  under  thy  wing,  O  Death. 

I  am  tired,  I  am  cold. 

Take  me  under  thy  wing,  O  great,  impartial  bird ; 

Take  me,  carry  me  hence 

And  let  me  sleep. 

For  the  soil  that  was  once  so  sweet  is  sour  with  rotting 

dead; 

The  air  is  acrid  with  battle  fumes; 
And  even  the  sky  is  obscured  by  the  cannon's  smoke. 
Beauty  and  Peace — where  are  they? 
They  have  gone,  and  to  what  avail? 
The  mountains  stand  where  the  mountains  stood, 
And  the  polluted  seas  boil  in  the  selfsame  basin, 
Unconcerned. 


[65] 


The  beast  in  man  is  again  on  the  trail, 

Swinging  his  arms  and  sniffing  the  air  for  blood. 

And  what  was  gentle, 

What  bore  fruit  with  patient  pain,  is  gone. 

Take  me  under  thy  wing, 
O  Death. 


[66] 


THREE  DREAMS 

I_THE  SILVER  YOKE 

I  GROW  sick;  I  grow  fainter  and  fainter 
With  picking  out  a  footing 
Among  these  tiny  crags 
That  seem  made  of  lava 
Not  wholly  cooled. 

Fainter  and  frightened; 

Apprehensive  of  evil. 

What  end  threatens? 

What  doom — demeaned — degraded? 

I  see  dwarfed  men, 
Bald  and  ignoble, 
The  color  of  worms ; 
They  glide  into  byways 

As  a  worm  glides. 

[67] 


I  follow;     I  am  drawn  after; 
Caught  in  a  sick  spell. 
Through  me,  who  may  be  blighted? 
I  follow;     I  am  drawn  after.  .  .  . 

And  in  a  tent 

Of  dusky  velvet  folds 

I  stand  aghast. 

Rage  rends  me  with  a  purpose ! 

A  maiden  lies  helpless, 

A  naked  maiden  whose  hair  swirls  down  from 

her  plaintive  head 
Like  wilful  golden  rivers; 
A  maiden  whose  tender  shoulders  are  held  down 
Under  a  yoke  of  beaten  silver, 
While  leering,  wormlike  men 
Feel  of  her  flesh  and  bargain  for  her  beauty 
With  low  and  horrible  cries. 


[68] 


Anger  splits  me  apart. 

I  am  a  cloud — a  gale — 

An  avenging  storm! 

O  worms,  you  are  dead. 

O  maiden,  I  bring  you  a  cleaner  doom! 


[69] 


II — LOVE  AND  ART 

I  LEFT  the  place  where  one  had  sung, 

Misusing  music 

By  placing  herself  before  the  song. 

And  anger  at  mankind 

Battled  with  a  reverence 

That  music,  which  is  holy, 

Wakes  in  the  listening  breast. 

One  of  a  murmuring  crowd, 

I  walked  down  the  long  hill, 

Hurt  and  yet  eager; 

Throbbing  to  offer  myself 

As  servitor  to  all  I  loved. 

And  at  the  foot  of  the  modern  road 

Stood  an  arch,  vast  and  ancient. 

And  a  voice  in  the  shadow  bade  me  look  through  it; 

A  finger,  long,  lean  and  grey  pointed  back. 

[70] 


I  saw  a  landscape,  mellow  and  magnificent, 

Rising  into  the  sky. 

Rolling  pastures,  fit  for  the  flocks  of  Lebanon; 

Temples  singing  in  the  sun; 

Purple  rivers,  companioned  by  trees 

That  praised  God  by  their  symmetry. 

And  I  thought  to  myself : 

This  is  the  Past. 

But  the  voice  in  the  shadow  said: 

"This  is  Art. 

This  is  not  for  you." 

And  again  the  finger  pointed.  .  .  . 

I  fell  into  a  great  weeping. 

Unwillingly  I  turned  and  going  further 

I  saw  chalked  on  a  naked  hoarding 

A  crude  sum: 

"Love  minus  Art  =  Wife." 

And  I  followed,  with  withering  resignation, 

To  a  place  where  I  knew  you  waited. 

[71] 


Ill — THE  HOLY  BAND 

IT  was  evening  and  the  light  was  golden, 

Golden  on  the  furry  pasture, 

Golden  where  a  russet  bantam 

Drew  with  straining  curve  his  supper 

From  the  gilded,  gleaming  udder 

Of  a  cow  in  golden  shadow. 

I  bade  you  look, 

For  I  was  half  ashamed 

Of  this  disarray  of  nature 

In  the  golden  flood  of  evening. 

We  walked  together,  you  and  I, 

To  where  blue-robed  and  stately  women 

Moved  to  unsung  chants 

Toward  a  bidden  destination. 

[72] 


And  loaves  and  honey 

Were  laid  out  in  holy  whiteness 

Along  their  assured  path. 

And  you  would  have  eaten, 

But  I  bade  you  stay  your  hand, 

Too  blithe  for  piety. 

And  I  was  swept  along 

As  by  a  command,  a  sweet  hearkening; 

Easily  cleaving  the  swaying  band 

Till  I  was  leader — light  and  elated ; 

Balanced  and  propelled  by  a  rhythm 

Of  myself  and  not  of  myself. 

I  moved  as  a  ship  or  a  bird; 

And  yet  earch  footstep  left  its  image 

Graven  in  the  hallowed  rock. 

On  ...  on  ...  till  the  walls  were  mirrors 

And  I  saw,  not  myself,  but  a  greater  self, 

Re-formed,  transfigured,  made  secure; 

Firm  .  .  .  and  free. 

And  at  last  we  came  to  the  end 

And  I  stood  before  bronzed  doors, 

Waiting  for  confirmation. 

[73] 


The  doors  swung  back  with  the  hum  of  rolling  major 

chords. 

And  I  saw  a  patriarch  teaching  a  child, 
A  patriarch  suffused  in  washes  of  light 
From  high,  unending  casements. 
He  lifted  his  capped  head 
And  nodded  it,  ponderous  and  shapely. 
He   looked   at  me   as   at  one  who   is  known   and 

expected — 
And  gave  assent  by  a  grave  gesture. 

Joy  welled  up  in  my  heart, 
Stronger  than  light, 
Stronger  than  water, 
As  strong  as  song! 
And  I  turned  back 
With  tears  as  hallelujahs, 
Back  to  the  elder  women. 


[74l 


GROWING  PAINS 
By  JEAN  STARR  UNTERMEYER 

"Jean  Starr  Untermeyer  is  a  poet  by  the  grace  of  God.  .  .  .  Here  is 
no  sentimentality,  but  a  great  power  of  emotion.  It  is  a  strong  thing, 
this  poetry,  and  all  through  the  book  the  reader  has  the  feeling  of  being 
set  in  'a  high,  clean  place.'  .  .  .  Here  we  have  a  poetry  of  absolutely 
direct  speech,  but  direct  speech  so  suffused  and  heightened  that  it 
attains  high  distinction  and  a  stark  perception  of  beauty." 

AMY  LOWELL  in  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse 


"The  words  come  as  though  the  poet  were  engraving  each  of  them 
5n  the  'stubborn  rock'  of  which  she  speaks  in  that  poem  which  begins 
her  book;  these  poems  have  a  sculpturesque  quality.  There  is  struggle 
in  them, — and  a  hard,  unexultant,  chiseled  victory.  .  .  .  This  new  dis 
content  is  a  demand  by  women,  not  upon  us,  but  upon  themselves !" 

FLOYD  DELL  in  The  Liberator 


"In  the  first  collection  of  the  verse  of  Jean  Starr  Untermeyer  we 
have  that  union  of  hardness  and  intensity  of  the  intellect  that  defines 
and  separates,  and  love  that  fuses,  which  is  implicit  in  Pater's  phrase. 
Here  are  verses  as  clear-cut  as  a  quartz  crystal  ....  but  there  are 
rounded  as  well  as  crystal-edged  poems  here,  too.  .  .  .  There  is  no 
bathos  or  sentimentality  here.  All  of  these  poems  are  clean-cut,  in  many 
of  them  passion  and  precision  are  one.  ...  In  all  there  is  individual 
and  beautiful  rhythm." 

LLEWELLYN  JONES  in  Chicago  Evening  Post 


"Here  are  'no  songs  for  an  idle  lute.'  If  this  seems  a  bold  state 
ment,  an  examination  of  the  poems  gives  it  validity.  .  .  .  The  power 
of  investing  vulgar  experience  with  beauty  is  patent  in  the  color  and 
odorous  pungency  of  'Autumn';  in  'On  the  Beach*  with  its  sure  re 
surgent  cadences;  in  'Spring,'  perhaps  the  most  sustained  poem  in  the 
book,  certainly  one  of  the  most  penetrating." 

BABETTE  DEUTSCH  in  The  Dial 


"Growing  Pains  is  a  book  as  vigorous  as  it  is  winning.  Mrs.  Unter- 
meyer  writes  with  artlessness  most  accomplished.  .  .  .  Only  a  very 
sure  hand  could  have  managed  such  subjects  as  'The  Bed'  or  'Possession' 
without  ringing  cracked  bells." 

ORRICK  JOHNS  in  Reedy's  Mirror 


"I  should  say  that  it  was  something  of  a  technical  achievement  to 
be  as  clear,  as  lyrical,  as  emotional,  as  simple  as  Jean  Starr  Unter- 
meyer  has  been  in  this  volume  of  verse.  .  .  .  The  modern  woman 
giving — and  possessing — her  soul!" 

FLORENCE  KIPER  FRANK  in  Chicago  Daily  News 


"Her  dependence  is  upon  the  utmost  simplicity;  a  naivete,  almost 
primitiveness,  and  yet  she  achieves  excellent  effects  and  displays  a 
genuinely  poetical  imagination." 

H.  L.  MENCKEN  in  The  Smart  Set 


"Growing  Pains  is  more  than   a  promise  of  abundant  yield." 

The  New  York  Times 


"This  is  youth  monumentalized — the  growing  pains  of  all  ardent  and 
poetic  creatures,   voiced   and   made   articulate,    in   beauty  and  ugliness, 


in  pain  and  in  delight.  There  are  few  things  here  that  we  can  not 
read  often — so  keen  is  the  consciousness,  so  poignant  the  emotion,  and 
so  highly  proper  the  form." 

Louisville  Evening  Post 


"The  'granite  strength'  is  what  one  stands  amazed  at  in  these 
poems.  .  .  But  the  severity  is  not  without  loveliness,  the  loveliness 
that  bronze  has  of  light  and  shadow.  .  .  Mrs.  Untermeyer  brings 
things  together;  she  merges,  fuses,  makes  a  meeting-place  in  her  vision 
of  currents,  ideas  and  emotions,  and  they  become  one  stream,  one  body 
of  vital  and  significant  symbol." 

W.  S.  BRAITHWAITE  in  Boston  Evening  Transcript 


"Jean  Starr  Untermeyer's  work  possesses  intensity  tempered  with 
honesty  and  dignity  ....  but  there  is  nothing  of  the  neurotic  in  her 
intensity.  It  comes  from  strength  and  womanliness.  .  .  .  This  poetry 
is  real ;  it  is  free  from  petty  conventionalities.  More  than  that,  it  has 
the  divine  fire  of  a  genuine  inspiration." 

FRANK  V.  ANDERSON  in  The  Modern  School 


"Mrs.  Untermeyer  writes  woman  poetry— intense,  colorful,  vivid. 
She  says  things  that  sing  in  the  heart  and  make  pictures  there.  She 
is  simple,  frank  and  thought-provoking;  a  woman  and  writer  of  both 
courage  and  imagination." 

Chicago  Herald  and  Examiner 


"There  are  many  essential  praises  to  be  given  Mrs.  Untermeyer's 
volume.  .  .  .  There  is  the  spirit  of  a  true  artist  throughout.  The  de 
votion  to  beauty,  to  the  perfect  phrase,  is  evident.  .  .  .  Every  page  shows 
the  hand  of  the  conscientious  artist,  planning,  shaping,  slighting  nothing." 

GEOFFREY  PARSONS  in  New  York  Tribune 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


—  —  wnwf-1 

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General  Library 

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